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I, Faramir: the latter days (R) Print

Written by Surreysmum

02 April 2011 | 14742 words

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Part 5

25 Súlimë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

Well now, it has been an interesting day! I haven’t bothered with this journal for more than a full cycle of the moon, but I think I’d quite like to write down today’s events.

Maybe I’ll catch up a bit first, though. The weather’s been getting steadily better since I last wrote on these pages, and though there are still pockets of snow here and there, the winter is most certainly on its last legs. I have to admit I am not making much progress on my history of the Second Age Kings, but that is for the pleasantest of reasons, because I am rarely without occupation. Aragorn consults me frequently on matters of state, and Arwen too, for, as always, she handles Gondor’s relations with what remains of the Elven realms.

In the last couple of weeks, I have made an effort to go down to the barracks to reacquaint myself with my sword and bow. I am sadly out of practice with both, I regret to say, but just yesterday I managed to give one of the younger guardsmen a pretty decent bout without falling out of breath, so I think my skills, such as they ever were, are starting to return.

The barracks are well-peopled at most hours of the day, with young men eager to learn, and some young women too (Wynnie would definitely have approved). However around eleven of the morning it is particularly busy, and I have discovered the reason: that is when Aragorn and Legolas are accustomed to do some friendly sparring of their own. There are very few – and I am certainly not one – who can resist taking a break from their own exertions to watch that splendid sight. Legolas – well, Legolas is the Warrior Elf, one of the most famed fighters of our Age, as deadly as he is graceful. You could write an instruction book for armed combat just from watching him. But, to say truth, it is Aragorn I cannot drag my eyes from in these skirmishes of theirs. Accustomed as we have all become to his regal gentleness and civility, it is quite a thrill to see the battle-light come back into his eyes; to watch as he wields that long and heavy sword with effortless mastery, power evident in every motion of his muscled limbs. When his hair flies and he wipes the sweat of exertion from his face with a careless swipe of his forearm; when he startles the more disciplined Elf with an unorthodox move and a shout of glee; when he acknowledges a good hit with a nod and immediately falls back into defensive posture, daring his opponent to continue; when he whirls his weapon against the Elf’s in a dance so furious the eye cannot follow, except by the flying sparks; then it is that I see glimpses of the great war-leader we all followed without question into battle, ready to give our lives for him and knowing he would do the same for us.

I must look like a silly open-mouthed damsel when I watch him fight. But glancing around me at those times, I take solace in the knowledge that I am not the only one. And, like all of them (I suspect) I sometimes daydream of being in Legolas’ place, crossing swords with Aragorn, and being the sole focus of his wild and exhilarating intensity. I was never good enough for that, and never will be. It takes a Warrior Elf to match our Warrior King.

Anyway, to today’s little expedition, which involved a form of warfare I am much more adept at: making stubborn plain folk agree like reasonable men. There is a small village named Bathholme up in the hills not far from Minas Tirith. I know it quite well. As boys my brother and I used to roam these hills whenever we could, and I have thoroughly explored the old ruins that, tradition would have it, were used for bathing by some long-gone peoples, and that now give the village its name.

As Aragorn explained to me on our walk up into the hills – it is close enough to walk in a couple of hours – the village has been in some turmoil of late. Two bitterly opposed factions had formed on the Village Council, and now it was coming to blows and damage to each other’s property. Aragorn rarely interferes in local disputes, but, he confided to me bluntly, he’d had just about enough of the Ambassador from Rhûn, and any excuse would do to get out of the palace for a day.

“So it’ll be just like the old days, ‘Mir,” he said with a grin. “They’ve been sent word that the King is visiting, so all the self-appointed bigwigs of the village will be falling over themselves to give me a reception and make speeches at me. Meanwhile, you’ll find out which parties are at the centre of the dispute, sit them down and talk sense into them, draw up an official-looking document with that impressive calligraphy of yours, and bring it to me so I can impress it with the Royal Seal on my ring. There will be much talk of the King’s Peace, the Village Council will take all the credit, and with any luck you and I will be back to the palace in time for a mug of ale before dinner!”

And so it transpired, almost exactly. The good folks of Bathholme now have a most splendid Royal Charter laying out the uses of their Village Green, and specifically prohibiting the grazing of pigs on all but the southernmost fringe.

The main road into Bathholme meanders away from Minas Tirith, so Aragorn and I chose to use a narrow, direct footpath down the steep sides of the hills for our return. It is quite safe, for it has had for centuries past a wide, though very low, stone wall running along its edge where the ground falls away. Indeed, in places the wall is wider than the path, and two walking abreast often do so most comfortably one on the path and one on the wall. Boromir and I used to travel along the path this way, and now Aragorn and I did so too, Aragorn taking the higher road so that to a casual observer he would have seemed a foot or two taller than I.

So wrapped up was he in explaining his plans to establish a minor regional judiciary instead of having all legal matters brought to his own Court, that Aragorn actually turned and started walking backwards the better to gesticulate to me. I gave a cry of alarm as we approached a rough patch in the wall, but it was too late. Aragorn’s foot slipped, he lost his balance, and he toppled with a nasty thud over the far side of the wall.

Fortunately, he did not fall far, but he found himself with tenuous toehold a couple of feet too low to scrabble back up the sheer wall of rock that faced him. I braced myself and leaned far over the wall, finding that I could just get a grip under his arms. He in turn locked his hands upon my shoulders. Then, with every ounce of strength I possess I heaved him bodily upwards until he was able to reach out and, gaining purchase, haul himself back over the wall and on to the path. As soon as he was back on his feet, I found myself closely clutched in his hard embrace, not sure whether he had grabbed me or the other way around.

He was breathing hard. “Don’t ever let anybody tell you you’re not a strong man, ‘Mir!” he said, pulling back only slightly. “By the Valar, what you did there was amazing.”

I had no reply. My heart was still in my mouth. I merely looked at him and held on.

“You’re trembling, mellon,” he said, concerned. “Come, sit down.”

We sat upon the little wall, side by side. My arm went around him of its own volition, my hand rubbing up and down the solid muscle of his arm compulsively, checking and checking again that he was really there. “You could have been killed!” I blurted at last.

He laughed a little at that. “Hardly,” he replied. “It’s not that steep. I was more likely to expire of embarrassment, if you had had to call the Guard to fish me ignominiously out of a ravine because I cannot balance on my own two feet!” He sobered. “But I was like enough to break a limb or two if you had not rescued me.” He brushed my face lightly with the back of his hand. “Thank you, ‘Mir.”

I was overcome with such a flood of affection for him at that moment that I didn’t know what to do with it. There were no adequate words. I did my best. “I could not bear to lose you,” I said. “You are as dear to me as a brother, as dear as Boromir ever was.”

He cast his gaze down, long enough for me to have time to worry that I had discomfited or annoyed him. But then he looked straight into my eyes and replied, “That is the most wonderful thing you could ever say to me ‘Mir. I am moved and honoured that you would name me in the same breath as Boromir.” He stood and pulled me into a brief hug, saying as he did, “You are as dear as a brother to me also.” Then by common consent we started side by side down the little path again, though I pointedly took the wall and he did not argue.

After a few minutes of rather awkward silence, Aragorn began to whistle. It was one of the cheery marching tunes that we Rangers used to sing on long journeys. I fell into step with him and joined my whistling to his, earning a quick smile. Then, as we reached the foot of the hill and joined the King’s Highway, he flung an arm around my shoulder and sang the words of the chorus aloud:.

Let the evil Kings plot and wild animals bite,
Let the rain from the heavens descend!
There’s nothing in Arda a Ranger can’t face
With a bottle, a sword, and a friend!

We sang all the way back to the palace.

So, you see, it has been a very good day indeed, though it could have turned out so differently. Even now, as I think back to Aragorn’s declaration that I am dear as a brother to him, I am overcome with a great, warm fondness, not to mention joy at being accepted again, especially since I can hardly claim to deserve it.

And, inexplicably, I also feel slightly disappointed. Sheer perverseness, Faramir, sheer perverseness.

My arm and chest muscles ache from today’s adventure. I think I’ll start some archery practice tomorrow to strengthen them.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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12 Comment(s)

I was tremendously excited to find this story, because I’ve always loved “I, Faramir” though it’s a little sad when Faramir makes his final decision. (And yet your ‘Wynnie’ was such a well-rounded, likeable character that I almost didn’t mind my favorite pairing being broken up. It just made me like your Faramir more.)

And you really are giving us a detailed glimpse into Middle Earth in this one. The Elvish customs are nicely explained — Legolas is brilliantly done, he actually sounds like himself while saying things that the human chroniclers never wrote. And I adore the town of Bathholme, village green and all. How like Faramir to note the etymology!

From your final A/N, it looks like there may not be any more of this story, but I’m glad you posted this part so that we got more of Faramir’s unique voice in his journal. If you ever come back to this one, I’ll definitely be reading!

— Mira Took    Sunday 27 February 2011, 7:28    #

What a delightful surprise to find a comment on this story! Since finishing “The Stranger” last month, I have sometimes thought of coming back and trying to finish this one. No promises, though. But if Faramir speaks to me again, I will listen.

— surreysmum    Sunday 27 February 2011, 18:41    #

Now I’ll begin this by insisting, nay, demanding…okay, hoping that you’ll continue this story, you can’t leave us hanging! My heart leapt into my mouth at the very first line. What an opener, straight to the point and perfectly capturing that sudden shock that death does indeed bring. The fact Faramir still calls her Wynnie speaks volumes of their fondness for one another. I like too the fact this (and the predecessor) focusses on Faramir in his later years (obviously, going from the title :P) I’ve not read many fics where this period of his life is documented so it was really refreshing to see how well you went about it. Eowyn’s letter to Faramir was so lovely and so heartfelt too, and though I’m not a massive Legolas fan in general I enjoyed his forthright behaviour! I understand completely when the muse decides to abandon an idea but I really do hope you find inspiration to continue this story, I’ve really, honestly loved it so far :)

Eora    Monday 28 February 2011, 20:55    #

It’s lovely that my Faramir stories are finding readers again; they have been the orphan stepchildren, I’m afraid – not very explicit, and not set in the sexiest part of life (although I have tried to emphasize that neither Aragorn nor Faramir is crumbling to pieces!) Thank you again for letting me know you liked this. No promises, but positive feedback like this can only encourage me!

— surreysmum    Monday 28 February 2011, 21:46    #

Very nicely done. Please do continue. I’m not good at analytical comments or I’d write more. Thanks for writing.

— Rick    Friday 18 March 2011, 2:38    #

Thank you, Rick! Good news (well I hope it’s good). I went on a vacation last week, and completed this story, at least in draft. I did it in manuscript, so I hope I can read my handwriting while I type it in, and then it’ll have to be edited, but look for the concluding chapters soon!

— surreysmum    Tuesday 29 March 2011, 21:15    #

Absolutely delighted to see more chapters! Once again a nice blend of the relationship between the characters with back-story and secondary characters.

— Mira Took    Saturday 2 April 2011, 9:43    #

Thank you, Mira! It took a long while for Aragorn and Faramir to tell me how to end this, but I’m pleased they finally did1

— surreysmum    Sunday 3 April 2011, 13:21    #

Ah, this is all the sweeter for the long delay(s), dear!

— ebbingnight    Sunday 3 April 2011, 23:34    #

Thanks so much! It’s a great victory to write that “finis”!

— surreysmum    Monday 4 April 2011, 20:02    #

You finished it! A while ago, too, which shows how busy I’ve been not to have noticed… How perfect that we came full circle back to the cave. Thanks for the ending — and for both the I, Faramir stories.

— Mira Took    Tuesday 19 April 2011, 5:06    #

Thanks so much, Mira! There really was only one proper place for them to resolve it, wasn’t there? :)

— surreysmum    Tuesday 19 April 2011, 15:34    #

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